


The Games You Play You Would Always Win

by justkisa



Category: Football RPF, MCFC RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 04:24:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkisa/pseuds/justkisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're playing a game and each of them is trying to set the rules and neither one is interested in losing (Pizarro's caught in the middle).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Games You Play You Would Always Win

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Written in response to [this variation](http://touchline.livejournal.com/727.html?thread=556247) of [this prompt](http://touchline.livejournal.com/727.html?thread=552919#t552919).
> 
> 2) Written for meretricula for [Sant Jordi](http://ladiadadesantjordi.dreamwidth.org/3166.html).

David would never say that he knows the mister well. There are, however, certain things he knows about him, which is why he notices what he notices. 

He watches Silva for awhile, trying to figure out if Silva knows what David knows. He doesn't think he does. There's certain tension in the mister's interactions with Silva that suggests, at least to David, that Silva is unaware and that the mister knows it. 

He keeps watching Silva, trying to discern what Silva's reaction might be if David told him the things he knows about the mister. Silva, though, off the pitch, is, in his own way, as impenetrably enigmatic as the mister. 

He's polite to David, friendly even, but their interactions don't tell David anything real about him. There's nothing to be learned, either, from watching Silva's more open and enthusiastic interactions with their other teammates. It is only the way Silva is on the pitch, fierce and driven and utterly focused, that is at all revealing. He thinks that drive and unforgiving focus must be, at least part, of what so captures the mister's attention. They are mirrors of the mister's own.

It would be better, he knows, to leave the whole situation alone. He almost does except Silva touches the mister. The mister's players don't tend to touch him unless he touches them first. Silva does. He doesn't do it often but occasionally he'll reach out and touch his arm to get his attention or lay his hand on his back as he passes him. Silva does it casually, like it's nothing unusual at all, like the mister is his to touch if he wants. The mister never reacts to Silva's occasional touches but the studied blankness of his expression is as telling as a visible reaction. 

It's not a simple matter, though, opening Silva's eyes to what the mister truly wants from him. Talking--explaining--is not what David does best. 

While he's searching in vain for the right words, the season keeps grinding on. He watches as the tension winds the mister tighter and tighter until he thinks he might snap. He watches Silva in the dressing room after every game as he scowls down at his ankle as if affronted by his own infirmity.

So David gives up looking for the right words and, instead, he acts. It's better, really; he's always been more comfortable with actions than with words. He keeps it simple and direct. He goes to Silva one day after training and says, "The mister wants to see you."

Silva doesn't hesitate. "Okay. Do you know where he is?" David thinks most of his other teammates would have panicked at such an announcement. Not Silva. He looks almost pleased.

"Come on," David says, draping his arm over Silva's shoulders, "He wants to see me too."

When they reach the door to the mister's office, he lets go of Silva. He knocks and waits until the mister barks, "Come." 

He smiles at Silva. "Okay?" Silva nods impatiently. David opens the door and prays that the mister is alone.

The mister's sitting behind his desk staring down at some papers. He's alone. He doesn't look up until the door closes behind them. "David?" He sounds startled. David doesn't know if it's his name the mister's saying or Silva's. He's guessing Silva's. "What? Did you--" He stops and his mouth curves down into a puzzled frown.

Silva turns to David. He looks utterly bewildered. "You--what?"

Surprise is the only advantage that David has and it's not going to last. He steps closer to Silva and says hurriedly in Spanish, "Listen to me." Silva presses his lips together. He doesn't look happy but he nods. "The mister, he is--you are--it is very hard now, stressful and--"

"What," the mister interrupts, "is this?" His tone is sharp with barely controlled irritation. 

David ignores him. It's a dangerous thing, ignoring the mister, but David's willing to risk it. He focuses on Silva and keeps talking. "You can--there is something, you can help, if you--" He's getting tangled up in the words. He's trying to hurry, to take this chance before it's gone, but he still can't find the right words. He can't stop, though, not now. He leans closer to Silva. "If you want to. There is--" He looks straight at the mister and puts his hand low on Silva's back. "--something you can give him. If you want to." He waits and hopes that Silva understands what he's trying to say. The mister is watching, his mouth set in a tight, hard line, but he doesn't say anything. David knows that, if this doesn't work, the mister will make him pay. He might even if it does work.

"He wants that," Silva says softly, without inflection, "from me?" He's staring straight at the mister. 

"Yes," David says, "he does." 

Silva glances at him. "You are sure?" 

David strokes his hand up Silva's back. The mister's eyes flicker down then up, following the motion of David's hand, and his mouth twitches downward for the slightest of moments. "Yes," David says, "I am sure."

Silva sets his shoulders and tips his chin up. He takes a step forward and then another. David wants to sag back in relief. He's going to the mister. 

As Silva comes close to him, the mister turns toward him and says, "David, you do not--" Silva steps forward and presses his fingers to the mister's mouth. It's a startling, intensely intimate gesture. The mister, David knows, is not an easy man to shock but he seems taken aback by Silva's touch. 

They stay like that for a moment, Silva's fingers resting on the mister's mouth, while the mister stares at him like he doesn't know quite what to make of him. 

The mister reaches up and wraps his hand around Silva's wrist. He draws Silva's hand away. "Tell him," he says in Italian, without looking away from Silva, "tell him he doesn't have to." He keeps Silva's wrist trapped in his hand. 

"He knows," David says.

"Tell him," the mister says with familiar implacableness. That tone, David knows, is not to be argued with. 

"Silva," he begins to say, "you--"

"I know," Silva interrupts. His Italian is stilted and oddly accented. He reaches out and places his free hand on the mister's chest. "I want."

The mister takes Silva's other wrist in his hand. David waits for him to say again that Silva doesn't have to but he doesn't say anything. The two of them stare at each other, Silva's wrists caught in the mister's hands, and neither one says a word. Even so, David thinks, there's a conversation going on, one he can't begin to understand. 

The mister spreads his legs. David expects him to use his grip on Silva's wrists to pull him forward. He doesn't. There's a pause, a moment, where something akin to uncertainty flickers across the mister's face. Silva steps forward and the moment's gone. 

Now, David thinks, is the time to leave. In so far as he'd had a plan, this is as far as it had gone. He wonders, as he inches back towards the door, if Silva knows that now, there's no way back. The mister has him bound (if he could, David thinks, the mister would bind Silva with more than just his hands), trapped intimately close, and Silva, he'd gone to him. 

He misjudges his steps and clatters into the door. It catches the mister's attention. David reaches back and grabs the doorknob. He'd hoped to avoid this. The mister stares at him for a moment. "No," he says, with a terrifying, calculating smile, "stay."

David twists the doorknob. "I don't--"

"No," the mister interrupts, "Stay. Sit down." His tone suggests that arguments will not be well received. 

"I," David says, knowing it's foolish, that he'll never win, "think--"

The mister looks away from Silva. "Sit down." 

David lets go of the doorknob. He could still leave, but there's always a price to pay for exposing the mister's vulnerabilities, and it's best to pay it quickly. He considers offering a response--a surrender--but the mister has already turned his attention back to Silva. 

David walks across the room and sits down. The position of the chair leaves him staring at Silva's back. Silva glances back at him. Silva starts to smile but then he makes a low, startled sound. He turns back towards the mister. The smile the mister gives David over Silva's shoulder is sharply victorious. 

"So, then, David," the mister says, his tone and his expression have softened, turned indulgent, "what is it that you want?" Silva doesn't offer an answer. As the silence drags on, David starts to wonder if Silva just means to make the mister wait or if he's trying to force a reaction. If he is, he's wasting his time. 

Silva steps back. He doesn't make it far, the mister still has him in his hold. Then the mister lets go and Silva stumbles back. He steadies himself then he gets down on his knees. 

David watches the mister's expression. There's a flicker of surprise then only satisfaction. Silva moves forward and settles himself between the mister's legs. The mister shifts slightly, opening his legs to accommodate Silva. David expects him to touch Silva but instead he rests his hands flat on his thighs.

Silva reaches out and starts undoing the mister's pants. He pushes them open and takes the mister's cock in his hand. David can see that the mister isn't fully aroused. Silva works him with his hand for a moment then he lowers his head and uses his mouth. The mister doesn't touch him, doesn't say anything, he just watches. 

The soft, wet sucking sounds of Silva working his mouth on the mister's cock seem like the only sounds in the room. They're interrupted only by the hoarse, hitching sound of the mister's quickening breath. 

David shifts in his chair. He puts his hands on his thighs and digs in hard with his fingers. He can't really see most of what Silva's doing but it hardly matters. The sounds of it are suggestive enough. David knows those sounds. He shifts again and resists the temptation to slide his hands higher up. He can hear his own breathing now. He can _feel_ it as it comes in short, desperate pants. 

Silva stops. It's such an abrupt move that David startles. The mister reaches out a hand, like he's going to drag Silva back, then he withdraws it. "What," Silva says with pointed deliberateness, "is it that you want?" 

"David." It's a warning and a plea. Silva doesn't move. The mister reaches out his hand again but stops short of touching Silva. "David." 

"What?" is all that Silva says. It's like they're playing a game, David thinks, and both of them are trying to set the rules and neither one is interested in losing.

The mister rests his hand on the top of Silva's head and says, his voice ragged, "David. _David._ " Silva doesn't move but the mister does. "Enough." He fists his hand in Silva's hair and hauls him forward. "Open your mouth." Silva must, because the mister's eyes flutter closed for a moment, and he says, " _David_ ," with something like relief.

The mister abandons his previous restraint. All David can see is the back of Silva's head and the mister's hand buried in Silva's hair. He knows, though, that the mister is forcing Silva down onto his cock--that he's fucking it relentlessly into his mouth. The rhythmic smacking, choking sounds of it are unmistakable. 

David digs the heel of his hand against his cock. It's torturous--hearing it but not seeing it. It's enough to get him hard but not enough for anything more. He cups himself, spreads his hand over his cock, and even that feels good--better than it should. He wants _more_. He almost gives in and touches himself but he stops himself and drags his hand away. 

The mister pulls Silva away from his cock. To let Silva breathe, David thinks, he can hear Silva's breath coming in shuddering gasps. "Please," Silva says, " _please._ "

"So," the mister says, tipping Silva's head back, "this is what you want." He sounds pleased, like he's won something. Silva doesn't repeat his plea. He doesn't say anything at all.

The mister doesn't seem to care. He touches Silva's mouth. "Maybe," he says, "maybe later you can have more." He glances at David. "Maybe later you can do this for David." He pushes his fingers into Silva's mouth. He smiles a little and looks straight at David. "If he lasts that long." He says it all in Italian. David doubts that Silva understands. He's sure he's not supposed to. The mister's not, David thinks, saying it for him. He's saying it for David. This, David knows, is as close to gratitude as the mister will come. It's an order, too, an admonition to wait or face the consequences.

The mister pulls his fingers back out of Silva's mouth and drags his fingers across his lips. "You are," he says, his voice dropping low, like he's talking to himself, "I think, driving him a little crazy." David looks away. That's not for him or for Silva. That's not for anyone but the mister. 

The mister pats Silva's cheek. "Get up," he says, this time in English, "come." Silva, for the first time, does what the mister asks without hesitation. 

As soon as Silva's on his feet, the mister tugs the side of his shirt and says, "Take off--" Silva nods and starts to step back. The mister puts his hands on his hips. "No. Here." He leaves his hands on Silva. 

Silva undresses without fanfare. He starts with his shoes. When he takes off his shirt, he tosses it behind him without looking away from the mister. It lands on top of David's foot. He kicks it away. When Silva starts to shimmy out of his pants, the mister makes a low, pleased sound. He runs his hand over the curve of Silva's ass. "You are," he says, his voice rough, "from..."

Silva ducks his head and pushes his pants down the rest of the way. He turns slightly and David can see what so pleased the mister. He's hard. Just from sucking the mister. Silva glances at David then he drops his pants and turns back to the mister. 

The mister's running his hands all over Silva, over his ass, along his sides, up his back, like he wants to touch every inch of him. David can't blame him. "Please," Silva says, "please." The words are bitten out, like he doesn't want to speak but can't help himself.

"No," the mister says, standing up, "No." He turns Silva and pushes him back against the desk. "Not now." The sound Silva makes when the mister presses against him--David can't describe it. It's choked and sobbing. The sound of it is like a hot, shivery caress across his skin. 

Silva grabs at the mister's shirt and pushes into him. "Yes. Now."

"No," the mister says. His voice isn't as steady as it was a moment ago. "David, _David_ , not--"

"Please," Silva says. David thinks, if Silva said please to him like that, desperate and wanting, he would give him anything he asked for. 

"No," the mister says, his voice hoarse but steady, "no." He flips Silva and bends him over the desk. The sudden, startling violence of the move has David on his feet before he can think about it. The chair clatters away. The noise attracts the mister's attention and he turns and stares straight at him. "Sit down," he says. He has his hand splayed between Silva's shoulder blades, pinning him to the desk. 

"Silva?" David inquires softly. 

"Sit down," the mister repeats. 

Silva turns his head. "It's fine," he says in Spanish, "David, it's," the mister slides his hand up Silva's back and cups Silva's neck. He presses his thumb against the pulse point of Silva's throat. " _Oh..._ " Silva's voice softens into a desperate, breathy sigh and his eyes flutter closed.

"Sit," the mister says, without looking at David, "down." David sits.

The mister leaves his hand on Silva's throat. "I'm going to fuck you. Here. Like this. Bent over my desk. I'm going to open you up and fuck you." He trails his hand down Silva's spine, does something with his fingers that David can't see but that makes Silva moan and push back into him. Silva opens his eyes, stares straight at David, and David wants to moan too, looking at all that desperate wanting. 

The mister puts his other hand on Silva's hip and pushes him forward. "You," he says, "you are going to wait while I fuck you, wait until I say and then--do you understand?" Silva doesn't say anything. "Say it for me, David, tell me that you want it." 

There's a long pause and David wonders if Silva'd understood any of that. He opens his mouth, thinking to translate. Then Silva says, "Fuck me." He manages to make it sound like a demand instead of a plea. 

"Is that," the mister says with a dangerous softness, "how you ask for things that you want?"

There's a nerve shattering moment of silence. David holds his breath--holds it until he's dizzy and the mister and Silva blur together in front of him. 

"Please." David breathes again. "Please," Silva says with soft calculation that almost passes for surrender, "mister," and the mister digs his fingers into Silva's hip. He, David thinks, only hears surrender. "Please." 

"If that's what you want?" He makes it a question and his tone is smugly satisfied but his voice is slightly unsteady. He wants, David realizes, for Silva to ask for it again. He's not surprised. The mister always did like to make people beg. 

Silva pushes up, levers himself up just a little with his arms, and presses back into the mister. "Yes," he says, his earlier calculation gone, washed away by what sounds like desperate impatience, " _please._ "

The mister pushes Silva forward, puts his hand in the middle of his back and pushes him back down against the desk. "All right," he says, "I'll give you what you want. Just--a moment--you stay," he pats Silva's hip, "stay." 

As soon as the mister moves, lets go, Silva shifts, readjusts his position. "Still," the mister snaps, punctuating the word with a short, sharp slap to Silva's ass. Silva makes a low, garbled sound, like he's biting back a moan. "Another time," the mister murmurs, trailing his fingers along the fading, red imprint of his hand on Silva's skin, "another time."

David imagines it. Silva, naked, like he is now, bent over the mister's desk, or his lap, while the mister works him over with his hands, turns his skin bright, red, paints him with the marks of his hands. He's not aware of it but he must make a sound because the mister glances towards him. He looks him over. "Touch yourself," he says with casual dismissiveness, "if you don't think you can wait." David doesn't mistake it for permission. He takes it for what it is, a mocking admonition, and stares back, keeps his mouth shut. The mister smiles and David fights the urge to squirm. It's a relief when he turns his attention back to Silva, who's holding himself so perfectly still, waiting for him. 

When Silva starts to beg, David almost breaks. He'd held off through the shuddering, moaning sounds Silva made when the mister pushed inside him. He'd closed his eyes, bit his lip so hard he'd bled, and made it through the stuttering, hitching way the mister gasped Silva's name once he was all the way inside him. He'd ground his fingers into his thighs and fought his way through the sounds that came when the mister started to move, to fuck Silva. Then Silva starts to beg, to plead, in Spanish, for the mister to go faster, to fuck him harder, and David forgets to fight. He presses his hand to his cock, rubs it fast and rough, and almost comes right then, right in his pants. He might have, except the mister turns to him and says, "What? Tell me, what is he--"

Silva's still pleading. His words tumbling and tangling together into a nonsensical mess. David forces himself to pull his hand away, to rest it flat against his thigh. "He--" He can barely talk--barely breathe. "He wants--wants you to go harder--faster."

"No," the mister says, turning away from David, dismissing him. "No," he says again and slows down. "You don't--" He stops and Silva's broken gasp almost drives David to put his hand back, to flout the mister's orders and just-- 

The mister pulls out of Silva, drags him up onto his feet and manhandles him around and up so he's sitting on the desk. Silva allows it but he's looking down, at the floor, not at the mister. The mister crowds forward between Silva's legs and forces his chin up with his hand so they're face to face. "I will," he says, harsh and low, "do as I like. You will do as I say." Silva doesn't say a word but David drags his hand back down his thigh, wraps it around his knee and digs the tips of his fingers into his kneecap. It is always better to do as the mister says. 

Silva still hasn't acquiesced. Hasn't nodded. Hasn't said a word. The mister pushes him down, his hand sliding down his throat. "I will do what I want," he says, with a determined authority that's running ragged at the edges. Silva wraps his legs around his hips, reaches between them and grabs his shirt, pulls him closer. That, David thinks, is likely as much of a surrender as the mister is going to get. 

The mister takes it. 

When they start again, it's, for all the mister's protestations, faster and harder, almost frantic. They're face to face but they don't kiss. The way, though, that they stare straight at each other, the way that Silva pulls the mister so close, is so rawly intimate that a kiss seems irrelevant. They talk to each other, too quietly for David to hear, their voices a low, buzzing hum in his ears. He wonders if they even understand each other. As he watches Silva arch up into the mister, watches the mister's control slip as he fucks Silva harder and faster, he thinks, they understand each other perfectly, even if they don't understand each other's words.

The mister comes first. His control shatters completely and he slumps inelegantly forward into Silva's embrace. He presses his forehead to Silva's and gasps out something David can't really hear. It might be Silva's name. 

They're still for a moment. 

Silva's panting, rasping, shuddering breaths that drive David half mad. He's trying to speak but he's not making words, just desperate pleading sounds. David holds himself perfectly still. Barely breathes. If he moves, he's sure just the shift of fabric against his cock is going send him right over the edge. 

The mister straightens up. He pulls Silva with him and cradles him close. Silva's still gasping, like he can't get enough air, and he shudders when the mister pulls him close. 

The mister ducks his head and whispers in Silva's ear. It hides Silva's face from David and the mister's body hides enough of Silva that Silva's ragged, desperate exhalation of the mister's name is David's only indication that the mister's finally touched him. As Silva comes, the mister draws him closer, tucks his face into his neck, hoarding Silva's pleasure for himself--hiding it away from David. 

The mister rubs Silva's back, murmurs to him, soothing him with a tenderness David wasn't sure he was capable of. David can't begrudge Silva the mister's care, not when he's the one who brought Silva here, delivered him into the mister's hands. It soothes him too, just a little, watching the careful sweep of the mister's hand along Silva's skin. 

Eventually, the mister says softly, "You will do something for me?" David can't make out Silva's murmured response. He still has his face buried in the mister's neck. "Come," the mister says, patting Silva's back, "can you..." He helps Silva down off the desk. Silva stumbles a little. He reaches out for the mister and grabs his shirt. The mister steadies him then leaves his hands on Silva's hips. 

For the first time, David thinks, as he looks at Silva clutching the mister's shirt and staring down at the floor, Silva seems vulnerable. He looks exposed and unsure. 

The mister tips Silva's chin up and leans in to whisper something in his ear. Silva straightens up. He lets go of the mister's shirt and turns towards David. He looks David over and then he nods. He moves away from the mister, toward David, but the mister moves with him. "No," the mister says, pulling Silva back against him, "He will come here." He pins Silva to him, splays his arm across Silva's hips. 

For a moment, David thinks Silva's going to push forward and break free of the mister's hold. There's a flicker of something across his face, like he's considering a struggle, but instead he relaxes back against the mister. Captive, David thinks, because he chooses to be. 

He's an arrestingly erotic sight, naked and pleasured, held fast against the mister who's still fully clothed. His smile suggests that he knows exactly how he looks. "Well," he says, in Spanish, "are you coming?"

David considers, for a moment, saying no. He could leave now and extricate himself from the tangled, twisting push and pull between Silva and the mister. But he's frustrated and driven to the edge of desperation and, really, it's too late for that now, isn't it? He stands up. 

When David comes close, Silva pushes forward against the mister's arm. "No," the mister says, stepping back and dragging Silva with him, "like this." He sits down. "You will..." He spreads his legs and urges Silva to his knees between them. Silva goes without complaint. The mister leans back in the chair and says, "Come here." David goes.

He hesitates, though, when he reaches them. "You don't," he says, in Spanish, so that it's just for Silva, "you don't have to. I can..."

Silva smiles. "I want to." 

David's not sure he believes him. "Really," he says, "you--"

"Enough," the mister snaps, "now, or just go." 

Silva rolls his eyes. David has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Silva smiles a bit wickedly and says, still in Spanish, "I want to. Let me?"

David doesn't try and stop his smile. "Okay." 

He's been waiting so long that, when Silva touches him, he can't stop himself from crying out. It's a simple touch, just Silva's hand around his cock. It's electric, like a shock to his system, an almost too intense overload of sensation. Then Silva leans in and wraps his mouth around the head of his cock. He almost comes right then. But he won't-- _can't_ \--give the mister the satisfaction. He grits his teeth and finds some restraint. It's not easy. Silva's excellent with his mouth and the way he looks-- 

David reaches out, thinking to touch Silva, to pull him closer. The mister stops him. "No," he says and squeezes David's wrist. 

David's about to acquiesce and withdraw his hand, because he is not a fool, when Silva reaches up and slides his hand over the mister's. David wasn't expecting that, and neither, he thinks, was the mister. Silva rests his hand on top of the mister's and says softly, "He can if he wants." He trails his fingers along the back of David's hand. "Do you?"

David glances at the mister. His mouth is set in a hard, unhappy line. He digs his fingers into the underside of David's wrist. "No," David says, because he knows, even if Silva doesn't, that it is the only thing he can say, "No." 

Silva drops his gaze and his hand. The mister's expression doesn't change but he lets go of David's wrist. He runs his hand over Silva's head. Silva ducks away and moves forward toward David. For a second, David is sure that the mister is going to pull him back but all he does is fist his hand and rest it on his thigh. 

The mister's restraint lasts mere seconds. As soon as Silva puts his hands--his mouth--back on David, the mister reaches out and clenches his hand in Silva's hair. He looks at David as he does it. David puts his hands behind his back. He wraps his hand around his wrist and squeezes. He is, as much as Silva, at the mister's mercy and, unlike Silva, he's without the means to fight it. With Silva's mouth, warm and wet around his cock, though, fighting it isn't exactly his first thought. 

It's maddening, having Silva's mouth on him, because it's so good but it's not _enough_. Silva's restricted because of the mister's hold and can only take the tip of David's cock in his mouth. He lavishes attention on it and uses his hand to make up the rest. It's good, David can't deny that, but all he wants is _more_. 

He digs his fingers into his wrist. He wants to reach out and push Silva down farther, make him take more of his cock. He shifts forward as much as he can. It doesn't help. So he asks--begs, "More, _please_." He immediately thinks it's backfired because the mister pulls Silva away. David gasps at the loss and bites down hard on his lower lip to stop himself from pleading.

"Ask again," the mister says softly, "go on." He's smiling. It's a dangerous thing, that smile. 

"Please," David says because it's the only thing to do, " _Please._ " 

"Okay," the mister says and lets Silva go.

David waits. He's not fool enough to think this means he can touch Silva. Silva doesn't keep him waiting long. He gives David what he wants and takes his cock deep in his mouth. He decides that this is just as maddening as before. David doesn't know how the mister had ever pulled away from this. He's sure he could never have summoned the necessary willpower. 

He almost forgets himself when he starts to come. He lets go of his wrist and reaches out to touch Silva. The mister beats him to it, pushing Silva forward and holding him in place. David drops his hands to his sides and focuses on staying on his feet. He says something, he thinks, _please_ , or, _God_ , or something. He doesn't know. He's lost in a rushed, dizzying blur of sensation. It drives everything else away. 

He's still steadying himself, has just barely pulled out of Silva's mouth, when the mister says, "You can go now." It's exactly what David had expected to happen. He nods. He takes a step back and starts to do up his pants.

Silva starts to get up. "No," the mister says sharply, pushing Silva back down, "No. You are not going anywhere." He says it with a kind of determined authority like he's trying to forestall an argument. 

Silva doesn't offer an argument. He settles back on his heels and lays his head on the mister's thigh. He glances up at David and smiles. It's as slyly satisfied a smile as David's ever seen. He almost smiles back but he thinks better of it. He looks at the mister. He isn't smiling but he's staring down at Silva with smug satisfaction. He rests his hand on Silva's head. "Go," he says without looking up.

David goes. Leaves them to each other.


End file.
